Contact
by Chornyi
Summary: Short story expanding slightly the relationship between Ian Nottingham and Sara Pezzini. R. might be a little strong, but there is, umm, a bit of bad language on Sara's part and some slight undertones.


CONTACT  
  
by Chornyi  
  
Note: I do not own these characters, they and the series 'Witchblade' are the property of Warner Bros., TNT and Top Cow.   
  
I am just taking them a little further then those worthies allowed them to go, for my own enjoyment and those of the other fans who would like Ian to be happy for once :)  
  
This is just a short story expanding the relationship between Ian Nottingham and Sara Pezzini a little bit.. I hope you like it.. please review/email me at laikaskyelycos.com and let me know.  
  
....................................................................................  
  
The apartment is dark. Something has woken her but she is not sure what. She lies on her back, staring up at the ceiling, breathing slowly.  
  
What is it?   
  
The air currents are all still. She hasn't heard a sound. There's nothing but her own breath, her own heartbeat, slow, still, from sleep.  
  
She has a only light sheet pulled over her, but even so, she's hot.   
  
She wants to fling the sheet off, feel the cool air on her naked skin, but something stops her. She can't remember her dream. Was it the dream that woke her?  
  
Or something else?  
  
Sara feels the bracelet, still on her wrist. Usually she takes it off at night, leaves it on her dresser. Not tonight. The metal is cool, the stone quiescent.  
  
She feels... watched.  
  
That feeling tells her what woke her, who is disturbing her rest.  
  
'Nottingham.'  
  
She says his name softly, not expecting the answer she gets.  
  
'Yes.'  
  
'Shit!' Sara sits up in bed, the sheet coming with her only by a miracle of forethought.  
  
'I thought you were outside!'  
  
She can't see him, but his voice tells her where he is- in the darkest part of the room, over by the dresser. Maybe on it.   
  
Like a black cat, watching her, waiting, curled there for how long?   
  
Sara doesn't want to think about it- how long has he been there, watching her sleep? Invading her.  
  
'Get out,' she says, her voice harsh. 'I didn't ask you here.'  
  
'No...' he says. At first she thinks he is defying her, then she relizes he's agreeing- no, she did not ask him here.  
  
'Nottingham, what do you want?' she asks, her heart-rate slowing. It's just the same old thing. She should become used to his appearing at odd moments, even if this is odder then some, even if his behavior lately hasn't been as reassuring as she'd like. 'Something new to confuse me with?' is what she's going to say, but his answer to her first question stops her cold.  
  
'Don't ask me that,' he says.   
  
She replays her words- 'Nottingham, what do you want?' and then his.   
  
Good idea, she thinks.  
  
'Okay, what are you doing here?' she tries instead. 'It's late. I'm sleeping.'  
  
'What am I doing here?' his words have a musing tone, as if he's wondering himself.  
  
Her eyes are beginning to adjust to the darkness, and she can see him now, a vague black shape blacker then the blackness. She was right- he's on the dresser, sitting on the edge with his head lowered.  
  
'Yeah, Nottingham, what are you doing here?' she says, harsher because he's making her nervous. 'Say your piece and go!'  
  
'My... piece?' he echoes. 'I have no peace!'   
  
There's something in his voice that makes her nervousness escalate to fear. Is it desperation? Anger? Anguish? Whatever it is, she wants no part of it.  
  
'Yeah, well, now that you're here, neither do I.' she says.  
  
He makes a short sound, like a choked off laugh, or a sob.'I wish that were so,' he says, soft. 'For the same reasons.. reason.. of course.'  
  
Sara has had enough. 'Okay, Nottingham, time's up.' she says sharply. 'You've been cryptic. You've been mysterious. You've been your usual life-of-the-party self. Now get out. I have to work tomorrow. I need to sleep.'  
  
'Ian,' he says, his voice almost as harsh as hers.  
  
'What?' Sara asks, confused, 'What?'  
  
'Ian.' He says it through his teeth. 'My name is Ian.'  
  
'I know that,' she answers him in the calmest tone she can muster, as if trying to talk to a child, or an ascapee from a psychiatric ward.  
  
'Then why...' He has to start over again, on a deep breath. He sounds half strangled. 'Then why don't you use it?'  
  
His shape on the dresser has moved, he's lifted his head.   
  
Sara can't see his eyes, but her mind- the traitor- supplies an image.. the rich, warm color, the dark look that suffuses them when she hurts him, inadvertantly, or more often, advertantly.  
  
'I.. Umm.. I..'   
  
She doesn't know what to say- Because I don't want to? Because I like calling you by your last name better? Because I want to depersonalize you?   
  
None of those answers will suffice.   
  
'I don't know,' she says finally.  
  
Shit.. Why did he have to come? Why did he have to do this to her?   
  
'Dammit, Nottingham...' She's done it again.   
  
'Ian! Alright, Ian. Are you happy now?'  
  
'No.' His voice is so soft she barely hears the words. 'No, I'm not... happy.'   
  
If it were anyone else- Danny, Gabriel, even Jake, she'd ask him why. Try to make it better.   
  
But it's Nottingham.   
  
Ian.  
  
Shit.   
  
Her first instinct, the one she usually follows, is to blow him off. Tell him to get out then and go make himself happy, or something like that. Anything like that.  
  
But this time she doesn't go with her first instinct.  
  
She sits up further in bed, wrapping the sheet more securely around her naked body.  
  
'What's... What's wrong?' she asks him. The words are forced out of her and sound begrudging, but it's the best she can do.  
  
He's silent for a moment. She thinks he's not going to speak, and doesn't blame him. She didn't exactly sound as if she cared.   
  
Then he answers her. 'What's right?'  
  
There's something in his tone, in the words, an emptiness that she can sympathize with, God knows. What's right? He could be describing her own life.  
  
She can't see him over by the dresser, just a shape in the dark, a vague outline.  
  
'C'mere,' she says without thinking.  
  
He stiffens, she sees hs head snap up, a movement like a startled deer.   
  
He doesn't move. She can tell he either thinks he misheard her or thinks she'll change her mind. His hesitation annoys her.   
  
'Ian. Come here.' she says firmly. To make herself plainer, she pats the edge of the bed. She takes the time to think, what the hell am I doing, but tells herself to shut up.  
  
She's not doing anything. She just wants to see him better.  
  
He moves finally, sliding down off the dresser and rapidly approaching the bed. He sits down before she can invite him further, his stiff body perched on the edge of her mattress, his face turned away from her.  
  
He doesn't move then, becomes perfectly still. The tense line of his back and jaw, all she can see of him in profile, tell her he will flee with the slightest provocation.   
  
He's sure of himself in the dark, safely away from her, or knowing she is going to cut him the next minute. He almost look for it, she's seen that, although she's never wondered why before.   
  
He's not sure of himself now.  
  
'Ian, relax.' she says softly, and almost laughs at herself for telling him that. To her surprise, she herself is relaxed.  
  
He's not. When she leans forward and touches his shoulder because her words got no response, his muscles clench and he jerks as if she hurt him. 'Don't..' he says raspily.  
  
He's bundled up in his usual black coat- and even his gloves, she sees, because he is worrying at his lower lip with gloved fingers- although it's not cold at all.  
  
'Ian, I'm not going to hurt you.'   
  
As if she could. Then she remembers that dark look his eyes get and knows she can.  
  
'Not going to hurt me...' he repeats in a soft, dreamy tone. His body relaxes slightly, his head sinking down toward his knees.  
  
At least it's some improvement.  
  
'So... you wanna talk about it?' she asks him. Can't believe she's asking him this, but somehow the words have left her lips. There's even a concerned tone, like she'd use to Gabriel. But Gabriel is her friend.. And Nottingham.. Ian.. She's not sure what he is, but he's not her friend.  
  
'Talk about it...' he seems to be just repeating her words, like a small, soft, sleepy echo. His head droops a little lower.  
  
Did she put him in some sort of a trance?  
  
'Hey! Ian! Snap out of it.' She snaps her fingers and his head jerks slightly. He looks up at her, his eyes dark, round and filled with an expression she can't discern at this low light level.  
  
'Sara, I am not... in it.' he says.  
  
'What?'  
  
'I cannot snap 'out of it'. I am not 'in it.'  
  
'In what.. ? Never mind. So, you wanna talk about what's bothering you, or not?' She's not going to try and figure out what he means. In fact, she's sorry she got into this wth him. Half of her hopes he will decide not to talk about it. Will just leave and let her get back to sleep while she still can.  
  
'I think 'or not' woud be the safer route..' he says in that small, musing tone. Good, Sara thinks before she can stop herself.   
  
His head is down again. 'But...' he says.  
  
So much for 'Or not,' Sara thinks.  
  
'..I.. I think if I do not talk about it, I may.. I might..' He doesn't finish, but his body gives a little quiver, a shiver of fear, or revulsion maybe. Whatever he might do, it isn't good.  
  
'So, talk.' Sara says.  
  
'So easy..'   
  
Sara is uncomfortable.   
  
It is impossible not to be aware of him, so close, a weight on the bed, a weight on her, his black clad body less then a foot from hers and vibrating with that peculiar energy only he has.   
  
His voice is soft and the dreamy note is back. It makes her almost as uncomfortable as he does.  
  
'I know it's not easy, Ian, but trust me, you'll feel better if you get it out.' Okay, now she's a shrink. If it doesn't work this time, she's giving up. She SO does not need this. Shoulda just done the usual and kicked him out. Shouldn't've worried about his sad eyes, that sound that might've been tears in his voice.   
  
He is just too much emotional tiptoeing for her. She never did like the emotional type.  
  
Not that 'type' matters between them, of course.   
  
Because she just doesn't see him like that- he's not a friend, he's not anything personal to her, she doesn't even LIKE him.   
  
She doesn't even TRUST him.   
  
And she is NOT attracted to him.   
  
Even if he was her 'type' she wouldn't..   
  
Forget it. Not going there.  
  
He's talking. Looks like it worked, Sara, good going.   
  
So much for getting rid of him fast.  
  
'I tried..' Ian is saying.  
  
Shit, she missed the first part of it. Tried what? Can't ask, he'll think I wasn't listening. And why do I care if he does? Shut up.  
  
'I tried.' he says again. That strangled note is back in his voice.  
  
'I tried not to love you.'  
  
Okay, what the fuck? This is NOT what I was looking for when I asked you to talk! Sara curls her knees closer to her body, trying to put more distance between them even though he's bowed away from her, not even looking at her.  
  
He's still talking, although his voice is getting smaller-  
  
'Father told me.. he told me not to and I TRIED, I did, Sara, but I can't. I CAN'T help it.' His head is almost touching his knees, all she can see is his hunched body and the back of his head with its sleek twist of hair.  
  
'I tried.' he says. And then he does sob.  
  
'Oh, shit. Oh, Jesus, Nottingham. Ian. Oh, shit.' Sara says.   
  
If it was Gabe.. or Danny.. or Jake, she'd take him in her arms and tell him it was going to be alright. But it's not. It's Ian.  
  
And he's crying. Hurting.   
  
She doesn't like him. She doesn't even trust him. But, shit, she can't leave him like this. Can't do that to him.  
  
'Ian. C'mere.' It's the second time she's said those words to him, and like the first, he doesn't move.  
  
Sara does. Coming up on her knees, she puts her arms around him, black coat and all, and pulls him against her body. Just like Gabe, she tells herself. He's just like Gabe. He just needs someone to hold him now, and it has to be me.  
  
Ian goes totally stiff in her arms but he doesn't pull away. He just freezes and makes a little sigh.  
  
His smooth hair is warm against her skin when she lays her cheek against the top of his head. ''S okay,' she tells him. 'Don't cry... ' she can't call him Ian, not now, when she's holding him in her arms. He's not Ian, and she's not Sara. He's not Nottingham, she's not the Wielder.  
  
He just needs someone to comfort him, to tell him it's all going to be okay, and the only person here is her.   
  
'Don't cry..' she whispers against his hair.  
  
He doesn't cry. He doesn't move. She doesn't even think he breathes.  
  
And suddenly, Sara becomes aware of how it feels to hold him. He's hard beneath the bulky coat. His hair is silky and sleek against the curve of his skull, bound into that twist he always wears, pressed against her cheek and nose and lips.   
  
He smells like... Ian. Some sort of expensive aftershave, some warmth that's just his. She's caught visceral whiffs of it before, but now it's all around her.  
  
He's warm. His tense body seems on the bare edge of quivering, it's so tense it's almost a movement in itself.  
  
Jesus, Sara thinks. She's sitting on her bed, wearing nothing but a sheet, and holding Ian Nottingham, world-class assassin, killer, Irons' creature even if Irons is gone (and is he? her mind wonders) in her arms.   
  
She can feel something bulky under his left arm- a gun- and the black hilt of some sort of blade projects from his coat collar just under the trailing tips of his tail of hair.   
  
She has never been this close to him before, except against her will.   
  
This time it's against her will, too.. but this time she did it voluntarily. No one to blame but herself..  
  
And Ian, of course. She could always blame him. Push him away, yell at him. He'd leave, she knows he would. He might never come back, after this.  
  
Now's her chance.  
  
But she won't take it.  
  
She leans even closer to him, until her lips are above his ear.   
  
'I'm sorry...' she whispers.  
  
Finally, he moves. He takes a breath and lets it out in a ragged sigh, he leans back against her the slightest bit, as if begging to be touched, as if so starved for contact that he must cling to any he gets.  
  
'Don't be..' he whispers back. 'I'm not.'  
  
And right there, there they are back again where Sara does not want to be. He's no longer just someone in need of comfort, and she's still holding him in her arms.  
  
As if he senses her disquiet, he leans back against her just a touch more, and lifts his head so that his hair leaves her cheek and is replaced by his cheek. She feels the short hairs of his beard rasp her skin as he slides his cheek up hers like a cat rubbing its head against catnip.  
  
She feels his breath.  
  
'Ian...' she starts to warn him.  
  
He cuts her off. 'Please.'  
  
'Please what?' she asks him. She starts to let go of him and he catches her hands where they are wrapped around his shoulders, holding her.  
  
'Please... touch me.'  
  
Oh God. Oh, no. Oh, no way.  
  
'No way!' she says.  
  
'Not... not like that..'   
  
He has to add, 'if you don't want to.   
  
Just.. please.. it's been so long. Since Father.. Since you.. Since.. No one touches me anymore. No one touches me...'  
  
She remembers him and Irons- Irons' hand on his hair, on his shoulder, the possessive touch, the angry touch, but still touching.   
  
And now Irons is gone. And Ian.. 'No one touches me anymore.' Jesus.  
  
'Oh, Ian.'  
  
He lets go of her hands, releasing her. He bows his head again, and Sara knows if she tells him to go, he will.  
  
She doesn't.  
  
She doesn't pull her hands away. Instead, she keeps one where it is, on his chest just inside the lapel of his coat, against hard muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt.  
  
The other one she raises to his head. Her fingers find the knot of hair at the back of his skull and slip loose the binding. His loosened hair falls in dark waves, obscuring his face.  
  
Like Irons, Sara slowly lifts her hand to that hair and strokes it.  
  
Ian shivers. He makes that small sigh again.  
  
His hair is silky, the deep waves tangling her fingers. It's warm, and almost mesmerizing, the slow even strokes, his slow breaths.  
  
His body relaxes back against her, and she holds him to her with one hand while she strokes his hair with the other.  
  
God, if Jake could see her now.. Just don't even think about it.  
  
Sara feels her legs cramping. Ian is a heavy, boneless weight against her chest, his head practically lying back against her shoulder. Her arm aches from holding it up to stroke his hair.  
  
She is so tired.  
  
Yet she doesn't want to push him away and send him home.   
  
'Ian,' she says softly, about to ask him to shift position slightly.  
  
He misreads her. 'I'm sorry.' His head snaps off her shoulder and his body tenses away from her. 'I'll go.'   
  
He starts to rise.  
  
'Ian, stop.'   
  
He does, obediantly.  
  
'Come back here.'   
  
Sara lies back on the bed in a more comfortable position, her head and shoulders propped up by the pillows. She looks up at the dark shape that is Ian and pats the mattress. 'Here.'  
  
Slowly, he obeys. He perches again on the edge of the bed, then lies back so that his body follows into the curve of hers. Hesitantly, he lowers his head to the space on her shoulder it held before.  
  
'Okay...' Sara says softly. She wraps her left arm around his body, holding him gently, and lifts her right hand to tangle in his hair again.  
  
He lets out the soft sigh she knew was coming.   
  
'Now go to sleep.' Sara says. 'We'll worry about the rest of this in the morning.'  
  
Ian sighs again, and she feels warm his breath tickle her neck. She's so tired she doesn't even tense.  
  
I'm sleeping with Ian Nottingham, Sara thinks as she drifts away. How strange... Or maybe not.... 


End file.
